You remind me of one of the gay scarlet runners that climb up the slender poles in the garden below my window.

The pole holds up the vine at first, of course, but the vine keeps the pole straight; not in any ugly and commonplace fashion, but by winding round, and round about it, and hanging its blossoms in and out and here and there, till the poor, serviceable pole is forgotten in the beauty that makes use of it.
"Good-by, little scarlet runner! You will bloom again some day, when the storm that has beaten you down has passed over and the sky is clear and the sun warm.

Don't laugh at me, Polly! "Always yours, whether you laugh or not, "EDGAR." "P.

S.No.III.

I should n't dare add this third postscript if you were near enough to slay me with the lightning of your eye, but I simply wish to mention that a wise gardener chooses young, strong timber for _poles_,--saplings, in fact! _Mr.John Bird is too old for this purpose_.